I Speak For 'Uncle-Aunty'

Of late, amongst other interesting [possibly more surprising, and admittedly more discussion-worthy] things, I've taken to strolling through Quora. Fun place, because you don't feel like you're barging in on people unexpectedly, but you still get in on often-great responses to sometimes-great queries about this or that or that or that. Or that. Or even that. There's everything left to be learnt, yessir.

One such stroll led me to a question that amused me at first - How should parents ask their children's friends to address them, and for what reasons? I said I was strolling, quit judging.

As I read the answers posted [you can read them here, sign up/in because it'll be worth it], I couldn't help but feel like the West has been missing the point altogether. Why do you want a special name for yourself anyway? Why can't that kid's name for you be mass produced and in common with all his peers, just like his breakfast and his innerwear? Are you more special to that kid than his breakfast or innerwear? Okay, touchy topic. 

Still, the question prompted a quick checklist of why India's 'Uncle/Aunty' tradition gets my enthusiastic vote. I quite like that this list of benefits isn't restricted to friend's parents.. we're inclusive like that! Obviously, not all points apply to every Uncle/Aunty I've ever spoken with. So if you're one, do try and look at the brighter side of points.. even if points are supposed to be zero dimensional. 

Since this is the closest you may ever get to a rational, public dissection of a rare moment of national pride, be sure to think about it after you switch tabs.

• At the very least, I see the 'Uncle/Aunty' system as acknowledging that the said adult is older than I, period.
  
  I don't have to respect a person in order to respect their age and the experience [whether superior or misguided] that comes with it. Nor do I need to bother with a silly speculation about relative worth and dignity and whatnot to call someone Uncle and not Mahesh or Mr Mahesh. I'm just acknowledging the age difference, nice and simple. 

• I don't have to know you to call you Aunty! That makes things civil more often than not. Doesn't mean you're my favourite.
  You could be that sweaty, smelly, whiny lady on the train - especially the one with all that hair left open for me to nuzzle - who insists on sharing the sorrows of a stubbed toe from Vashi to Kurla, throughout realigning her hip against mine and digging her inconsiderately designed, boxy, brass-studded purse into my ribs. I might want to growl at you and stamp all your toes and donate a hairclip or two while I'm at it, but I will still call you Aunty when I ask you to move a wee bit away from my crotch. I RESPECT YOUR AGE, ANONYMOUS AUNTY. I also don't like you very much.

• Continuing from the lack of like involved, this system simply isn't dependent on how close you are to that [older] adult.
  If you're close and/or both want a different, special name or if your equation changes in some way that warrants a new term, the path to redressal is clear. If not, no harm done!  Since all our languages provide a host of names for older male and female relatives, it's not like 'Uncle/Aunty' have any special or familiar overtones. So my parents' closest friends that I may or may not be close with, my favouritest neighbour from when I was a kid, my boyfriend's mother, the security staff or cashier at a mall, the stranger walking ahead of me and that evil lady on the train can all be my Aunties. And no one finds this offensive! They might if they give this universality some thought, but at least until I pointed it out, no one minded.

• Along with ^, it also absolves you of the need to know the adult's first name.
  
  For those of us used to the UAT [cool cultural feature merits an acronym, no?], I think that's actually a fairly unlikely thing for to know, the first name of your friend's parent. I can always refer to them as "X's mom" should the need arise. It's also very convenient during introductions, moments of forgetfulness and evaluations of occupied memory space in one's mind.

• Loses the stiff formality of Mr/Mrs, but retains some measure of distance anyway.
  
  That way your friends won't wind up with a complex about your equation with their parents. Tell me how that's undesirable.

• Usable regardless of the language you are speaking!
  
  As in case of other English words [think "hello/okay/bye/side please/thenks"], these terms have percolated across languages and are understood and accepted by many-to-most even in rural India. I've actually had someone insist that "okay" is a Telugu word, so you'll just have to trust me on this percolation theory.
• Once it catches on, it can provide inspiration for popular dialogues, weirdly catchy songs, even the odd search history preference.
  
  Deny any of it and you would be labelled low on creativity, and woefully ignorant of your own culture.

In My Head

I’m just a poor boy

Though my story’s seldom told

I have squandered my resistance

For a pocketful of mumbles

Such are promises.

The hardest thing I have ever done is to have confessed doubts. Doubts about promises and commitments made to/by those that matter to me. Realistic doubts about whether things will withstand, whether I shall deliver.

I’ve grown to demand strength of myself. And honesty. And a burning sense of optimism that has more to do with strength and honesty than is apparent. 

It’s laughably easy to call yourself an optimist, isn’t it? It only requires you to think things will fall in place just fine, right? Added bonus: it makes you sound bright and sunny and rather like that delightful little sanguine creature everyone loved in that new movie. Marvellous. Positivity to add to the good vibes in the Universe.

But a true sense of optimism presupposes a conviction about the issue at hand, as does a true sense of pessimism. A conviction born of an honest evaluation - where “honest evaluation” is a neat case of redundancy - of your own work and input; an evaluation that reeks of integrity. An evaluation that is founded on a reasonable standard; one that is its own defence in a rational argument. It’s an optimistic remark only when the evaluation suggests things are going good and are likely to. Optimism has more to do with your own ability, strength and the willingness to be true to indicators of their performance, than not. It’s realism on a good day, in a situation with good prep.

It’s too bad, then, that the same rules apply to doubts. A doubt is not about imagining things, nor is it about wanting to complicate matters. It’s not about cynicism or jinxing commitments and it’s certainly not about going back on your word. It’s an honest evaluation that reeks of integrity – even when you wish it didn’t, even when such an evaluation is the last thing you want to collide with. And its inevitable appendage is trust in the parameters of evaluation, which translates to strength to voice the doubt.

Perhaps it’s hard to confess those doubts because your standard of parameters is your own. You can’t be sure if it is shared by one other or a million others. Your idea of reason may or may not match another’s. But if it’s honest and just and free of contradictions and irrationality, chances are you’re thinking straight.

Find something inside of you that must be shared with those outside. Write about it. Find something inside of you that must be shared with the insiders. Do it. Write about it. Honestly. Thus ends a note to myself, one tucked away for future use.

Blindness & Bombay

I was born and brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

But when I walk past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble, crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.

People waiting for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to protect me. My city calls out to me.

When I walk through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares. Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city calls out to me.

               

I often take visitors for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you?  It's too bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse against each other.  A faint whiff of the sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.

Get on a bus heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you will have reached the ghats. You will hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and postal codes, my city calls out to me.

And you see, I tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed nothing. Who’s to decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another? 

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.

I fail to see the difference.

Not Poetry, Not Prose

It's not like I'm traumatised about my last post but it is weighing on my mind. Perhaps because normally, men say/pretend it was an accident. They either brush past you and get lost in the crowd asap or mutter an apology as they're compelled to walk past. When you glare back or hit, hurl an abuse or snap at them to hold their elbows in, they comply and look away duly chastised. Sometimes people around you join in in giving the man nasty vibes. Big help. But we're just so used to being felt up or brushed against. The next time you see a woman turn around looking disgusted, disgruntled but not too shocked, you know what could have caused it. 


In contrast, what I wrote about was just so overt. Not even a facade about it being an accident. He moved in with an intention, he ran away to avoid the consequences. Such a conscious act. I think that's what shook me up more than anything.

It would be very cliched to talk about being scarred, mentally or otherwise. But scars are demeaning. Ugly leftovers from ugly times. They hang around even if you're "over it" and they almost always evoke a reaction from you. I suppose it would approach high prose if I was to talk about how they remind me of goats being branded before the kill. Shall avoid.

But indulge me here for a while. Picture it for yourself. You were unable to see his face, it was turned away for the entire duration of your chance encounter. He could walk past you on the street tomorrow and you may not be able to identify him. He could be the guy standing behind you in the line at the ATM, or one of two people you share an auto with tomorrow morning. You still wouldn't know. I don't know.

I don't get how this works. I'm not sure I want to figure it out. Would that evening go down in his mental record as just one of many such incidents? Was that his idea of scoring? How does the bugger sleep at night and look his mother in the eye? How long until I stop wondering if I ran as best as I could? Am I ever going to stop picturing myself walking down a road with restless eyes and a sharp not-quite-a-stone-but-not-quite-a-rock in each hand? I detest how I now walk around with a grim expression and a tense jaw. I feel like I'm not being true to myself, but right now, that's what feels right. Convenient.


Most of all, I hate how I stiffen up every time someone walks by too close. It doesn't matter whether it's a male or a female, how they're dressed or what they look like. Be it at the rickshaw stand or on a railway platform or right outside college. My default mode involves being stiff and glaring at the world, a part of my mind devoted to considering how I'd block the guy closest to me should he decide to swoop in. Do I sound like a paranoid fool who's overreacting? Chances are that's how your mom and sister feel. Have a chat. See where your sympathies lie the next time a man around you is being abused and you're not sure if he really did anything, if it was a big deal. "Arre at most he only touched her na." Who gets the benefit of doubt here?


It's too convenient, telling the female that she was asking for it. That she should have double thought the time of the day, the way she was dressed. She should have know that's what the neighbourhood is like. That she shouldn't be laughing aloud while she walks, she shouldn't draw attention. You tell her how to keep herself hidden away. How to be inconspicuous. But it's really not about the clothes she wears, how attractive she is, what her "character" is like or what time your wristwatch reads. It never is. It has nothing to do with attraction. It's violence, plain and simple. So why does it not occur to you to talk sense into the heads of the men you know? How about addressing fucked up mindsets, the root cause? Tell your son what I'm saying and ignore that friend who thinks you're making too big a deal of this shit. This is a big deal.

I've shared this before. Once more won't hurt.

Please don't pull a Mulayam Singh Yadav on the world around you. He promised government jobs for rape victims in his state. You see, rapes will continue in this state, we can't possibly address that. But I will give you a job to make up for the violation of your self. Come forth and abuse the provision, dear voters. Come help me ride my bicycle.


I used to scoff at women who'd insist on ladies compartments in trains at all times. Now I dwell on what made them insist.

He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.

The Revolution Needs You To Revolve

There’s something very fucked up about you and I. We don’t seem to realize what’s going on around us. To use language favoured by MBA grads, we’ve internalised all that’s wrong with us. To put it plainly, we’re idiots who don’t give a shit.

Sure, fucked up is as fucked up does. That’s the beauty of subjectivity at work. The lack of superlatives and the redundancy of overused phrasing further our regrettable idiocy. Which is why even scalding coffee that’s low on sugar qualifies as a fuck up, yes.

Some of us are luckier than others. And that’s all it really is, luck. Much as we’d like to harp on about merit and opportunities and destiny, it’s really just a series of episodes of lucky luck that led us here. You and I can read this blog post on a slick web browser while millions out there can’t. It doesn’t mean that’s what we were meant to do. Or that those millions were meant not to. We just kept getting lucky when it mattered. And that’s actually okay, except that we don’t seem to get it. Even when we do, we tack on a smug smile and continue as before.

That’s the problem. That’s why we’re fucked up. We can appreciate the nuances of coffee, even wine, but not of what’s really needed of us as individuals. We’re immune and insulated and blissfully unaware. Therein lies our failing. And our lucky remedy.

I have come to understand from books, movies, personal accounts of the wise and even pop psychologists that we all go through phases. So there is a phase of innocence followed by a phase of awakening. Some rebellion, some vengeance, some realisation and some complacence. For some of us, an extended phase of dispensing counsel. I have also come to understand that each of these phases is as important as the other. None negates another. That the sum of phases is what makes you who you are; the sum is always constant.

Permit me to say that it’s too bad the sum does not seem to consider the ratio of its parts. For if it could perceive that the innocence and the complacence far outweigh the awakening, it would protest. If it could tell that a shortlived summer of rebellion featured only to be able to register its presence, not to mean anything, it would throw that neat, double spaced record of phases straight at our faces. And it’s too bad it can’t.

For you really don’t need to be a commie to proclaim that the working class has it bad. Or a radical activist to step in and alleviate the tribals’ woes. You don’t need to be a pseudo secularist to voice your concerns about the minorities. And you aren’t a gullible fool if a stranger’s words motivate you. Wanting to change the system doesn’t make you a silly idealist who doesn’t know what to do with his time. 

It's in your head.

But taking note of all that’s wrong will take up much of your time. Trying to comprehend how people cope will take up some more. And in the time that is left, you must identify how you can help and get down to it. If anything, it will routinely frustrate you to tears that there is so much that needs to be done – not just so much that you want to do. And just before your lower lip starts quivering, a man will stop right by you. He will peer into that overflowing stilted trash can that sways in the breeze, fish out and drain a styrofoam cup jutting out of the mess and walk away in search of his next sip of coffee.